


Shattered Pieces

by PoisonMistress



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Pre-Slash, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonMistress/pseuds/PoisonMistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is approached with an offer of money, in exchange for his skills as a doctor, and the ability to keep his mouth shut, he agrees. But the broken man kept confined under the pretence of love catches his attention, and his heart. Sherlock/John. AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> AU, in which Sherlock is apparently being forced by Moriarty he be his fiancé, and John works for Moriarty as a doctor. Violence, and drug use in later chapters (I think)

The first time John saw him, he was walking calmly through the weapon room. His slim frame was wrapped up in a long coat, and his cold grey eyes pierced everybody and everything. John was sure he'd never seen him before. Nobody would forget those cheekbones in a while.

The man swept past him, bringing the looks of everybody working. Some saluted him, and some bowed. John just watched. And he was sure those cold grey eyes fixed on him for a second, before flitting away.

The look could have turned anybody to stone. John found it hard to believe somebody could have so little emotion in a look.

But there was something else hidden in those eyes. Sadness. Overwhelming, biting sadness. This man was not happy.

But then, not many people who worked for Moriarty were.

The second time he saw him, was around a week later. Again, it was just a brief moment. The slender beauty strode past him, eyes staying fixed straight ahead. His mouth was clenched, and his fists balled. He didn't speak, but he didn't need to. People parted before him, scurrying away as if fearful he would strike them. Or somebody else would.

By the door (if the huge metal slab, built to stop people getting in, and out could be called a door) the man turned, and gazed coolly across the room. Again John was struck by the hate in that gaze. Hate that was cold and dead, burnt down to something bitter and emotionless.

Then he typed in a code, and stepped out of the door.

John cautiously turned to a hit man named Jones. They were on amiable terms. Mainly because he had patched the man up more than once.

"Who was that?" he asked in a whisper.

Jones frowned.

"You don't know?"

John shook his head, glancing to the door where the man had disappeared.

"That is Mr. Holmes." he said, as if that was all he needed say.

"Who?"

Jones gave him an incredulous look, then leaned in and whispered into his ear.

"Moriarty's fiancé."

John's mouth almost dropped open, but he stopped it and risked another glance at the door Mr. Holmes had disappeared through. By the time he turned back to Jones, the assassin was half way across the room.

John had been with Moriarty for three months, which was in itself something of an achievement. He had just gotten back from the war, and he had been desperate. So when he was approached by a shady looking man, who offered him a good paying job, he accepted.

The conditions were simple. Keep your nose out of everything.

So he stuck to them. He knew he was working for a criminal. A madman if you wanted to put it that far. He knew the men he was sewing and bandaging up were assassins. Murderers. But he found himself unable to care.

It wasn't like he could do anything anyway. If he went to the police, an unfortunate accident would occur. John wasn't stupid.

So he continued to get paid huge amounts of money to keep his mouth shut.

The 'den' they all worked, and lived in, was a large warehouse. According to the sign outside, it was a paper factory. But inside there were dark and dangerous secrets hidden. Moriarty and any prisoners he had were situated on the second floor. His employees on the first, and the armoury, food hall and surgery on the ground. It worked out well, though only the few men who the criminal trusted slightly more than anybody else got to see him. The rest were captives, who almost definitely didn't want to see him.

And John found himself reasonably neutral. He had been unhappy before, now he was neither happy, or sad. Most of the assassins and other assorted outlaws were okay company. A few didn't want messing with. But John was one of the few who didn't kill for a living.

He had never seen Moriarty, but his reputation was naturally huge. Huge, and evil. So the fact that he had a lover made John really wonder.

The man with the sad eyes. Mr. Holmes.

He wasn't happy. So what was he doing?

And what sort of a man was he to agree to being Moriarty's fiancé?

That very evening, when most people had finished dinner and gone to bed, he headed up. John had been in the armoury cleaning his army pistol. A habit, which allowed him to think. He was walking along the sterile white corridor toward his room, when he heard steps behind him.

He spun round, wondering if it was intruders. It wasn't. It was two men holding another one. He recognised Moran on one arm, trying hold the victim down. The other looked vaguely familiar.

But the man that was thrashing in their arms was the one his eyes stayed on. It was Holmes.

_What the hell?_

From what he knew, Moriarty wouldn't take kindly to his fiancé being manhandled. Mr. Holmes spotted him before the other two did, and his eyes met John's calmly, a kind of panic in their depths. But his mouth stayed set and hard. It was obvious he had pride, and he wasn't going to stoop to talking to mere mortals.

John struggled with himself for a moment, then hurried toward them. A small smile twitched Holmes' face, but it froze on his face when Moran slipped a needle into his arm in the moment he was still.

"Mr. Moriarty is very disappointed." Moran said harshly.

Holmes slumped, his eyes closing. John couldn't get those grey eyes out of his head. They made him wonder, made him sympathise.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Moran's head shot up, and Holmes slipped down until he was almost lying on the floor, limp and unmoving.

"Keep out of it Watson, Moriarty's orders." he said, frowning.

John hesitated a second longer than he should have, looking at the man, before turning and leaving. Guilt washed over him as he closed and locked his door. But there was nothing he could do. If he had put up any objection to Moriarty's orders, he would have been shot on the spot.

He stripped down to his boxers, and crawled into bed, Holmes haunting his mind.

John knew that prolonged thought on the grey eyed mystery would ultimately lead to death, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

It seemed obvious that the young man had gone away without permission, and wasn't that keen on returning. But if he were Moriarty's fiancé, why try and leave?

A quarrel, or something bigger?

John tried to push cold, grey eyes from his mind. The eyes told him more about Mr. Holmes than anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had had enough. So he did a rash thing. Leave.

Of course he knew Moriarty wouldn't let him go. Not that easily. He wouldn't even let death part them. He'd tried, but he had a limited range of weapons, and after the first overdose, Moriarty watched him like a hawk.

Some would say it was love.

Sherlock said it was spite.

To keep him sad, alone and defeated. A constant reminder of who had won. What better way to constantly remind him of that than refusing to let him die?

So he existed, not lived.

And he was beyond miserable. Moriarty, the ultimate adversary, had found the ultimate way to keep him downtrodden. The ultimate way to constantly remind of what had happened, and the mistake he had made.

Nobody knew where he was. Not even his brother. What he would have given to talk to Mycroft, he didn't know. But he would have given half the years of his life just to let his brother know he was alive. Because that would mean hope.

In the seven months he'd been Moriarty's fiancé, his feelings and emotions had been honed to a different level. On the one hand, he appreciated the friendship he had had with certain people, and even found himself missing them a little.

On the other hand, he had become more distant. He had to be. He was empty of everything. Only a cold will for revenge keeping him going.

Apparently there was a difference between trying to kill yourself, and loosing the will to live.

So that day, after he had woken up in bed, Moriarty twined round him, he found the carefully built barriers which had kept him from breaking down, gone completely. He wished he had the strength to strangle the man beside him. But Sherlock didn't. Something kept him from closing his hands round Moriarty's neck, and squeezing all the life out of the being that disgusted him beyond words.

Perhaps it was because he knew that would be lowering himself to Moriarty's level.

Perhaps it was just weakness.

Either way, he scrambled out of bed, pulled him cloths on, and left.

He doubted he would get very far, but a small act of defiance would probably make him feel better.

So he walked calmly past all the thugs and idiots Moriarty hired, and walked straight out the door without any of them even questioning him.

_Perfect._

The fresh air made him reel. It felt glorious. He was actually out of that hell hole.

His first thought was Mycroft, but he didn't want to bring his brother into this. He was probably as happy as it was possible for that automaton to be. And it was dangerous. A few hours of freedom, and then he would be ready to continue the form of torture Moriarty had concocted.

What was probably the worst was the fact that he could never leave Moriarty. That was really why he couldn't kill him. He could never leave the life he so hated. Because Moriarty had the key. Virtual, of course. The key was a figment of his imagination, but it kept him chained. It was Moriarty that had created this fantasy key. And it was Moriarty who kept the threat it created hanging above him.

For the three hours he spent outside, he walked along roadsides, relishing the wind in his hair. The sound of cars. The sound of people who were innocent of despicable crimes.

Then a car pulled up, and a door opened and he knew his time was up. He silently stepped in, remembering with a sigh the days that Mycroft would do a very similar thing. Who would have thought eight months ago he would have become so sentimental?

The thugs in the car pressed a gun to his throat, though he knew they weren't loaded. Still, the cold metal against his Adam's apple was painful. None of them spoke. He believed the man holding the gun was called Moran, or by the set of his face, Moron. One of Moriarty's favourites. He must be annoyed.

Finally the car pulled up outside the 'paper' factory. He was pushed from the car and walked up to a small, very, very secure side door.

Moriarty wouldn't want the lower ranking men to know he was having troubles with his lover. He started thrashing, because he had little to live for, and causing trouble was all he could do. Moriarty hadn't broken him completely.

He struggled and struggled. Soundlessly. No point making a noisy fuss. Moran grunted a steady string of swearwords as he tried to keep him under control.

That was when he saw him. A short, blond haired man looking back at him, horror on his features. Sherlock watched him. He'd seen him before... When he was stretching his legs in the armoury. He didn't have quite the same look at the others.

This was proved as the man made his way over, mouth opened in complaint. Sherlock felt a needle plunge into his arm, and shuddered.

_Game over._

"Mr. Moriarty is very disappointed." Moran snarled.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back, feeling himself slipping away. He hoped, as he did every time, that he had been given a fatal dose.

"What's going on?"

A kind voice. Not the sort of voice you expected to get here.

"Keep out of it Watson, Moriarty's orders." Moran replied, in a slightly distant voice.

That voice... It was nice. He liked it.

Watson? He'd never heard of him before.  
\----

He woke on the hatefully familiar mattress which belonged to Moriarty. His throat was dry and cracked. He didn't bother opening in his eyes. He knew Moriarty was there.

"Oh Sherry. Why do you do this to me?" Moriarty's singsong voice came from above.

Sherlock flinched as somebody kissed his cheek, and knowing Moriarty knew he was awake, opened his eyes and watched Moriarty stonily.

"Feeling any better, ducky?" Moriarty asked, ruffling his hair.

He was handed a glass of water, which he reluctantly drained.

"Moran told me you got a little feisty. Perhaps you've forgotten why you're here?"

Sherlock knew no answer was required. It was how conversations went. He couldn't even really remember the last he spoke more than two sentences. What was the point?

"But I do love it why you show a bit of fight! I was worried I'd beaten it all out." Moriarty's cold hands were tracing the scars on his chest now, brushing the light shirt away as he did so.

Sherlock shivered, closing his eyes to hide his repulsion, and the fear those scars brought up.

"Maybe we should do a little more, hmm? I know you enjoy it so, and I'll indulge you."

Sherlock caught the 'please don't' before it was uttered. He snapped his mouth closed. Moriarty wouldn't have the victory of hearing him beg. However awful what was about to happen would be, at least his pride could remain intact.

That was all he had left.

"Am I getting the silent treatment, Sherry?"

He let Moriarty roll him onto his stomach, tensing as his shirt was pulled from his back.

"You'll be screaming soon enough."

The first strike was light, but he knew it was only a start of what was to come. He knew by the end his back would be covered in welts and blood. All he could hope was he would pass out before Moriarty began to use all his strength in the beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr account - poisonmistress.tumblr.com


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